confessional

I have a horrible confession to make: I kind of like it when my child has a cold.  WAIT! Don't call social services and start screamin' "WITCH, MUNCHAUSEN, no WITCH, definitely witch... wait, no... would it Munchausen by proxy?  Ack, screw it, she's just a witch".  Seriously don't do it because I hate seeing Gigi in any stage of discomfort or pain and duuuuuude, I'd never make her sick on purpose.  That would require a lot of work and planning and I'm too lazy to do actual work.  Let's not even talk about planning stuff, I'm already making excuses to get out of the plans and work that don't even exist.

Anyhow, yes, my horrible confession of liking when my child has an uncomplicated, totally straight-forward cold.

You see, we just endured the week from hell.  I know, I know, join the club but seriously, I haven't received official notice that it's over yet and I'm probably tempting the fates and gods with this post, so have no fear, someone will strike me down and my work will go officially from hell to a double order of hell, upsized, with chili-cheese fries on the side.  But no drink and the chili is made of poo.  And to think, I just added to your torture by making you read that last sentence.  You're welcome.

Anyhow (how many times can I say that word - lots more than you deserve to read), the most current week from hell showcased a brutal cold that included all of the usual suspects: hacking cough, snot - actually, it was littered with assorted bodily fluids, take your pick, extreme fevers, crankiness, loss of appetite, and my favourite: listlessness.  It was during this limp phase that I realized I didn't fully mind this particular cold because... well because of a truly selfish reasons on my part:  my daughter morphed into the most compliant, cuddly kid ever in the history of her existence on this planet.

Yes, yes, I realize it was probably in part due to the horrible fevers and maybe some fever-induced delirium but oh my holy fish, she just wanted to be snuggled up by my side and have books read to her, and watch movies, or just plain sleep.  We'd attempt to play with her dolls or colour but those activities required too much energy.  Oh and the NAPS, glorious NAPS.  Which of course were filled with doing things that didn't get done because she wanted to cuddle every waking hour.  But then I would be totally nervous when she was sleeping while so sickly, so I'd generally cuddle up right next to her.

Oh and before I forget, a warning to all my fellow lazy speed readers: When I was researching fevers online in order to learn the warning signs for potential doc office trips, I accidentally clicked on a link for Dengue fever.  After reading about 10 lines in I totally felt my own internal organs melt into a puddle of fear.  Then I immediately thought, "geeeez how the f' did Denguy get a fever named after him?"  Seriously, how do you get some brutal monkey-bite ebola-like disease named after you and where do I sign up?  That sure beats getting a star named after you, it's like HOLY CRAP, that entire city was wiped out by Denguy fever and you don't get that kind of publicity as a star, unless that star happens to fall out of the sky and destroy a city and you know, in that case you still got ripped off because DUDE your star totally fell out of the sky.  And to think, once your star fell out of the sky, your star is gone, but a thing like Denguy fever, well that's the fever that keeps on taking and taking for generations to come.

Then I realized it said Dengue.  The end.

Totally made you forget about my horrible confession, eh? d'oh

UPDATE: So apparently I'm far from alone on this sentiment. Backpacking Dad wrote about the same thing last week and said it a hell of a lot more eloquently because he one of those philosophical dudes. Isn't it wonderful how plagues bring out the prose in parents?  Also it makes me feel a hell of lot less guilty, thanks Shawn :)